Category Archives: DIY

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh shit, rampage today, to the bomb shelter!” Meh, I beat up a couple kittens already, things are fine. But now with a clear head…

Admittedly, I have been drinking a bit of haterade lately and decided to skip town a couple weekends ago. What better way to cheer yourself up than to drive stupid far and see something you’ve never seen before?

Nothing, that’s what.

I took off early on a Saturday morning, around the asscrack of 6am. It’s not a tough drive that early, since from San Diego you just hit the 8 and barrel through trying not to make a wrong turn into Mexico, settle in a shark town, and marry a burrito.

Things that don’t suck: Dogs

Somehow I didn’t become Mrs. Erdmann-Burrito and things were going fine. Was amped on coffee, blasting Bad Religion’s Suffer, Bella was giving me that face you see over yonder.

Then just past Yuma I started hearing an odd noise. It was a kind of fwap-fwap-fwap-fwap sound like an angry grandmother had gotten under my car hood and was beating my fan belt with an oven mitt. I was literally in the middle of nowhere on that dead stretch between Phoenix and Yuma. The temperature gauge was telling me it was 110 degrees out already.

What’s a woman to do when she has no knowledge of car guts, zero cell reception, and an unwillingness to cooperate with the people of the world for a day?

Keep fuckin’ driving.

Which I did by turning up the music as loudly as possible to drown out the disturbing sound. I was moderately aware this might have been the last song I’d ever hear before being exploded into an oblivion, so I’ll have you know it was – say it with me – Niiiirvana.

No, but really. The fuck are my marbles?

Then suddenly the fwap-fwap jolted and started to sound like marbles. “Oh my dear sweet Moses…” I muttered to Bella the co-pilot. Turning down the music I just listened to the marbles. Out of the corner of my eye I imagined Tootles from Hook running alongside my car shouting, “You’ve found my marbles! You’ve found my marbles!” and I couldn’t help but giggle at the image of that fat old sod’s toothless grin of excitement.

Anyway, I was terrified for a while but kept going because I didn’t know what else to do, so up went Negative Creep again. Suddenly the marbles stopped and I don’t know why, but then everything was seemingly back to normal.

Weird ending to that anecdote but stick with me here pals…

I made a couple stops on my 9-hour drive to the northeast, but nothing significant to spend time detailing here. I did drive through an impressive lightning storm just past Flagstaff, shot the shit with a biker gang at a random gas station, and stopped at a nearly abandoned gift shop to snag some sort of momento from the excursion, settling on silver buffalo earrings.

I dunno, what do you buy in Arizona? I decided it’s buffalo earrings?

But then I made it. I got to my destination and had no idea what to expect. My friends from Arizona told me I was insane to go at that time of year, telling me it was monsoon season or too hot or blah, blah, blah. I didn’t care and needed to see something beautiful.

This came on as I was parking. Found that amusingly appropriate.

I parked, got out of the car. Grabbed my phone, dog, and a bottle of water.

When I first peered into the Grand Canyon, my heart stopped. I had found myself on the South Basin and in an area where there was no guard railing. Stepping onto the flat rock, I leaned forward to see the infinite drop into the great unknown, down into a sea of rocks cut from water ages ago. The basin was so deep hawks were soaring in and out of it as though the floors a mile below were as great a journey as any they’d ever done.

I walked around amazed, stunned, happy to be alone and without cell reception. Stopping to open that bottle of water, a young boy of maybe 8 or 9 paused a pace or two in front of me and stared at my dog. He was a chubby little thing, dripping with sweat as he had clearly been there for a significant part of the day exploring. His curly red hair was matted down with an American baseball cap, his outfit tied together with a blue and black flannel.

“Is he friendly?” he inquired in a thick English accent, pursing his lips nervously as though he realized he had spoken out of turn.

“Oh yes, she’s very friendly,” I said kneeling down to point her in his direction. He hesitated before kneeling down as well, then held out his hand to pet the 5-pound beast. Bella, not really a beast at all, licked his outstretched fingers in greeting…yet most likely due to their being covered in salt.

“He likes me!” the boy cried. I laughed and let them continue to interact, as he began to tell me about his trip here with his parents. “It’s my second time in America,” he went on. “The first time we went all over California. This time we are going all over Arizona.”

The chap was eager to talk and I was content listening, so we carried on for a good while about how he’d gone to a baseball game, went kayaking, saw parks. I realized the time was ticking and while I felt bad for leaving, excused myself eventually to continue my mission to stare out into the great abyss.

Me: YAS! Bella: Meh.

I met quite a few more people due entirely to my approachable pet. At one point a small African girl waddled up to me. I’m horrible with children’s ages but she was a tiny thing. Was able to talk…maybe 3? 4? She was itty bitty and still going between babbling and coherent words, but I could tell from her outstretched hand her purposes here were to pet Bella.

“Doggy?!” she kept gesturing inching closer. Down again I knelt, and this time picked up the pup so the girl could get a better look. She squatted down to admire the animal for a moment, then popped back up again in a squeal, “Mama!” turning around. Approaching were her parents accompanied with a baby, trailed by a couple more pairs of adults and a pack of other children, all of whom could possibly be related.

My time of solitude, I could tell, was going to be over for a little while.

I smiled warmly and offered Bella’s fur for their petting pleasure for as long as the children were interested. I nodded that she was a chihuahua, admitted I was American. I let them know the dog was a girl and that she was 7-years-old.

The adults were respectful of my time and after a bit began shuffling the children away, “Say bye, bye to the doggy!” the mother kept saying in a dialect of African accent. Once they were walking away the father turned around to mouth a silent, yet clearly grateful, “THANK YOU!” as he carried the infant and held the toddler’s hand on their way.

I spoke to some Italians, some French, even got to practice a little German. Apparently the Grand Canyon is an international station of culture, and I’m a little embarrassed I had no idea but thrilled with this accidental foreign adventure.

Eventually I was able to wander back to that first ledge I had found, and climbed just a little way down the rocks to hide from people and to hang my feet just over the ledge. After securing Bella’s leash on a nearby branch, I laid down on the warm rock, allowing the earth to comfort my back sore from the long ride, watching the sun settle in the sky to dazzle with both fading and glowing light.

There is truly something magical about the Grand Canyon. Something healing. Maybe it was the genuine interaction with strangers. Maybe it was the great abyss. Whatever it was, it was exactly what I needed and I felt restored at least to some capacity that day.

Unwillingly, I eventually peeled myself from the rock of solace, and Bella and I began our ascent back to the car. I was lucky to have some friends in Phoenix who were happy to host my weary head for the evening. Bummer though is Phoenix is a good 3.5 hour drive from the Grand Canyon. So, the pup and I stopped at a gas station in the little tourist village just out of the canyon before we headed back south.

After stocking up on coffee, a cheese stick, pretzels and a water, I hopped in the car and got ready to go. While I was buckling my seatbelt, I noticed a man about my age in the passenger seat of the car next to mine furtively looking in my direction. I kept about my business politely and started the car. It was still a trillion degrees out so I rolled down the windows to let out some fire air, and proceeded to put the car in reverse.

As I was pulling back, he apparently had noticed my front bumper and leapt out of his seat, “WAIT!” I wasn’t moving quickly but slammed on my brake.

“Uh oh…” I stammered leaning my head out of the window. It was only then that I remembered the incident a few hundred miles ago. I parked with the car exactly where it was, halfway pulled out of the parking spot, and jumped out. He knelt on the ground and pointed out that my mud flap, or whatever that mud guard is, under the carriage of the engine had come off. It was completely dragging and caught on the asphalt as I was pulling away. As we were discussing this, his similarly aged friend walked up and caught up on the conversation.

“Do you have any tools?” said the first one. We’ll call him Austin because he had a touch of a southern accent.

“Nope,” I said with blended confidence and sheepish guilt.

“Well, all we need is a screwdriver,” said the other one. His accent was far thicker so we’re going to call him Buck.

Austin, Buck and I figured out a screwdriver wasn’t going to work because the screws securing the gigantic bastard of a flap was in the shape of a star. The men fumbled around their truck to find anything that could work, and eventually fashioned a makeshift hold that would get the flap to stay put at least until I could get to Phoenix.

Austin, Buck, and the car that’s had enough of me.

While Buck was on the ground under the car working out the solution, I profusely thanked Austin for the help.

“No, no trouble at all,” he smiled, shrugging dutifully. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Before I drove off they checked to make sure it would stay, then off our separate ways we went. They were on their way east as they were on a cross-country trip, which I had learned after laughing at their gushing over seeing San Diego, LA, and the like.

Happy to be back on the road, I drove as quickly as I could to beat the nightfall. 3.5 hours is a pretty long time so I didn’t win, but fortunately I got at least 1 of those hours out of the way in the dusk. Listening to some Neutral Milk Hotel around hour 2, my phone was apparently back in reception as it had started ringing.

“JONI!” yelled the voice on the other line. “How much longer ‘till you’re here?!” The excited chirp was my host in Phoenix, who bubbled on about how excited she was to see me, filling me in on the fun party she had been to but was ready for me to get into town.

“What can I have ready for you?” she asked assertively. This wasn’t an, ‘Um, well, do you think there’s something you’d maybe like?’ No. She was determined to make sure exactly what I wanted was there and prepared. “I’m heading to the grocery store now so tell me what you want, lady!”

We settled on pizza and beer. When at last I arrived, the house was refreshingly cool. Her dude announced the pizza would be ready in 7 minutes, then handed me a cold libation the second I sat down. We all proceeded to spend the following hours laughing about stories from that day and that year. And yeah, I almost took out one of those pizzas entirely by myself.

The first statements I opened this post with are still totally true. People disappoint you. They break your heart. But luckily, there are things in this world that exist for the seeming sole purpose of cheering hearts easily laden.

Great abysses. Children and their wonder. Kind, benevolent strangers, including those who just want to talk to you, and those who want to make sure you’re going to be alright.

But most of all, when you accept the fact that people are horrible, it magnifies the power of those who blow past that fact and decide to be wonderful anyway. Both strangers and friends. They overpower whatever baggage they are dealing with, and find the energy to make sure your journey is a little easier. While I accept that people are terrible, I also accept that people can break through that terrible. And it is those people who can heal the damage the awful ones cause, giving us a valid reason to keep exploring, and keep on looking for those marbles.

I have decided to become a master chef. Not like, open a restaurant and hand people food because absolutely not, but like have people over and be all, “Hey, I made all this food and guess fucking what it won’t kill you.”

Most of you jagweeds have some knowledge in cooking but I, on the other hand, have relied for 32 years on the following method:

Frighteningly accurate depiction of my life.

Grab bowl.

Fill with cereal.

Fetch tiniest spoon (obsessed with small utensils, it’s fine).

Shovel in general face direction.

This is not entirely my fault. The folks were terrible cooks. Even easy stuff, like my dad’s idea of making a healthy breakfast smoothie was putting milk, chocolate, heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and raw eggs into a blender.

Raw. Eggs. And that’s just the tip of the cow-tongue-filled iceberg.

So in a turn for a better life, I honest to god have been giving cooking the old college try. Bought a cookbook, try to go out less, traipse around farmer’s markets in floral prints, and prepare actual food in the kitchen that came with this apartment.

Some friends have suggested that I try Blue Apron, but wtf. That’s the IKEA of food delivery. If you’re going with a home food delivery option, you know you can buy that shit already put together, right? Boggles the mind.

Anyway, so in the past two days of kitchen dickery, it’s a goddamn miracle San Diego is still standing.

Monday, I decided to make some variation of quinoa spaghetti. I know what you’re thinking:

It’s a gift. So about a month ago I had two stovetop pots in which I’d cook. With the largest of the two, I went to use a vegetable steamer to prepare a sweet potato. Well it ran out of water without my knowing (besides the burning smell, but everyone ignores that, right?) and I was just frying the shit out of the non-stick bottom. Like it bubbled up and hardened when it dried, just terrible. I laughed it off, washed it and put it lovingly back in its cupboard.

A couple days later I showed it to a friend, who’s already large brown eyes grew about twice their size. Horrified, he raised them up to meet mine.

“You know that non-stick stuff is where they keep the cancer, right? You’re not fucking cooking with that.”

I dunno, who knew? But I obliged and in the garbage it went.

Whoops.

Back to Monday, with that larger one deceased, I resorted to using a tiny saucepan for the spaghetti. We’ve covered that I like tiny things, so this felt like a win-win.

Working from home, this was to be my fancy ass lunch. I went to boil water and in went the spaghetti. Well wouldn’t you know my phone rang and thus began an impromptu meeting, all the while spaghetti boiling.

Upon my decidedly delayed return to the kitchen, lo did I discover I had boiled out all the water. All. Of. It. All the pasta stuck blackened to the sides of the pan like lovely little angel haired carcinogens. In the garbage it went.

Frustrated, I decided to abandon the idea for the remainder of the day and went out for dinner, took home leftovers. This was a solid plan because that’s TWO whole meals I didn’t have to bother destroying.

Happily I went to a client’s office the next day, food in tow, already packaged in its neat little togo container. Thought to myself, “How nice that it’s not in a styrofoam container, because you can’t microwave that earth polluting shit.” Lunch comes, pop that fella in the microwave, set timer for 2 minutes. Went back to work while it warmed its little self up.

Well that’s when I started hearing a sharp, loud, popping sound.

It didn’t dawn on me for a couple seconds that it could be my fault the break room was under attack, but then went to investigate. Peaked in the glass microwave window, AND EVERYTHING WAS ON FIRE. Flames were lighting up rapidly all around the sides of the container, as meanwhile I danced around helplessly like a goddamn moron wondering, “Oh no! But if I hit stop, is this going to fucking kill me?!”

Proving this actually happens in real life.

Decided to chance it and hit stop, and thank the murkin-loving lord that the fire immediately extinguished. It was quickly known that I was the fire starter, and in between bellowing fits of laughter, inquiries streamed in to the tune of, “How do you not know that you can’t put tinfoil in the microwave?!”

IN MY DEFENSE. You do put tinfoil in the oven. The oven is a hot place, too. And it also happens to be a place wherein food is warmed. AND said microwave had zero damage and can live another day. I think that’s enough for exoneration.

Anyway, it’s going to be a long time until I can have you over for delicious/edible/non-cancerous food, but mark my words, I’ll keep trying.

“What’s that on your neck?” my mother asked innocently with the lightest tinge of alarm. My 24-year-old self was walking in front of her down the hallway of her house, heading from the guest bedroom where she woke me up to the dining room. I had been extremely careful to wear my hair down any time I was around her for fear of this question coming up. Yet in the early hours of the morning, I mistakenly wore my hair up in a bun thinking my hooded sweatshirt would cover the delicate ink that began at the top of my neck and grazed down my spine.

“Um,” I stammered uncomfortably and quickly threw my hand to the back of my neck, rubbing it as though it were sore. I continued walking in hope that for whatever reason she’d forget about it and we could just enjoy a normal quiet morning drinking coffee and laughing about my idiot family.

No chance. She authoritatively removed my hand from my neck and pulled the back of my sweatshirt out, revealing the 6-month old tattoo on my back. “Joni…” she breathed, taking in the information, “why would you do that?” Her voice sounded disappointed, but I was relieved the reaction was nothing like when I was 19 and pierced my eyebrow. I had walked into my grandmother’s house proud of my new adornment and confidently walked up to the kitchen table complete with all of my aunts and mother. When she first saw it she didn’t skip a beat, and in front of everyone screamed angrily, “What the hell is on your face!? You look like a CLOWN!!”

While this was nothing like that, it was still terrifying. No one in my family had a tattoo, and although I’ve never been ashamed of it, I didn’t need to seek their approval nor did I want to bother them with it. “Why did I do it?” I repeated collecting my thoughts and trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. “Because I like it.” The words fell as flatly as they were delivered.

I turned around in one swift movement, freeing myself from her grip in order to face her honestly. I looked at her bright blue eyes and genuinely concerned brow, then relaxed realizing how silly of a thing this was to be concerned about. I looked down at her hands which were decorated with rings, supported by her wrists which both wore delicate gold bracelets.

“It’s a decoration,” I said inspired by her personal choices. “I think it’s pretty,” she still wasn’t buying it although this did seem to relax her a slight bit. Then it hit me, “It’s like jewelry.”

That was the magic word. Her tense shoulders fell and the furrowed brow eased. “Oh!” She took a moment to think about it and observed her hands donning jewelry of her own. “Well can I see it again?” she asked politely, a big change from the forced observation just a moment ago.

“Sure,” I said trying to sound enthusiastic and carefree, but there was still a hint of concern that her understanding was fleeting. I took off my sweatshirt leaving me in just a tank top, exposing the tattoo in its entirety.

After inspecting for a few moments she touched it gently, grazing her fingers carefully down my spine as if the ink would be elevated like puffy paint or brail. “So what is it?” she asked.

“It’s Hebrew,” I answered, “It’s from the Old Testament. I chose Hebrew because that was the original text.”

“It’s from the Bible?!” her Christian self sounded surprised and even more confused.

“Yes,” I confirmed turning back around, “these last forever, and there are few things that I know I’ll love forever, and one is God.”

“What does it say?” I felt like I was educating a student now.

“It’s Exodus 15:2. ‘The Lord is my strength and my song; He is my salvation.’ I chose it because of how much I love music and that it’s a permanent affirmation of my faith.”

She stood there digesting this information, my words hanging in the air. Without a word, she walked past me and into the kitchen. “Ah shit, now I’ve done it. She’s pissed,” I thought to myself.

She emerged from the kitchen 30 seconds later with a highlighter, and walked over to the podium that stood in the corner of the family room. This podium was in every house we ever lived in, and one of the oldest pieces of furniture I remember. When I was little I couldn’t wait until I was taller so that I could preside over it and pretend I was the President or a Pastor, giving a speech with ultimate authority.

On top of said pedestal was the family Bible, laying open and still to this day the biggest book I’ve ever seen. She flipped through the giant pages and asked, “Which verse is it again?” her eyes remaining in the text and flipping pages aimlessly. I repeated myself and helped her find the book, as my knowledge of their order was greater than hers. Once we arrived at the verse, she popped the lid off the highlighter and I couldn’t believe what happened next. She placed the inked utensil on the page and highlighted the verse, slowly and carefully. We NEVER were allowed to write in the book! Such an action was taught to be just as sinful as stealing.

She looked up at me and gave a small smile. “I want to remember what it says. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

That was one of the biggest moments of my life, and absolutely a game changer. My family always bullied me into behaving, doing, pursuing certain things. I gave up on all of them around 15, but never were my black sheep choices very well received (see piercing example). But that day my mother, while she probably still cared and it likely took her getting used to, decided what was done is done and she chose to accept my choice for what it was rather than reject me for my choice. That was honestly the first real moment I understood unconditional love. I finally felt free to be myself.

It’s interesting how we can change our minds about anything when presented with the opportunity by the right person. I was always taught to be anti-gay, that homosexuality was a sin, all that yackity-yak. I never really understood why, nor did I give a shit, so I basically didn’t take a stand either way so as to not piss anyone off. Then when one of my cousins came out, I quickly took his side and made it clear I loved him. Then another one of my cousins introduced me to the person she was dating, and much to my surprise it was a woman. My reaction was of course a little shock, as this cousin had always been a carbon copy of me and we grew up talking about boys. Then (hopefully, I sincerely hope I didn’t make them uncomfortable by standing there forever) only a short moment later, I smiled and hugged her girlfriend in an effort to welcome her trying to make damn sure both of them understood I was happy for them. My cousin was clearly very surprised, and later told me how scared she was to come out to me.

My immediate family is by far the most conservative of our extended family, and that has not always been a good thing – which I realized that day. I am sickened when my asshole brothers make fun of my cousins, but I am happy to be the ambassador for unconditional love for my family, and extend to the rest of our family peace and understanding.

God I sound like such a hippie right now. I am absolutely behind all of these words, but I sat down to write something pretty silly and light. I guess what I want to communicate today is that it’s important to remain open minded, because in that open mindedness you could be freeing someone else. Yes, it’s important to have beliefs, ideas and to stand behind them. But when presented with the opportunity to show unconditional love, I suggest we choose that before rejecting someone outright.

For example, did you ever think you’d see The Little Mermaid tatted up?! I’m sure there’s people who love the way Ariel and Eric traditionally look, and are pissed off as this is to them is blasphemy. While I was surprised, I loved these images when I stumbled upon them, appreciating their stark contrast to what we are to believe about these wholesome characters. They definitely made me think carefully about what we believe princesses and princes are, and how to me these images still represent my favorite childhood characters – actually even more.

To me they represent the challenge I present to you today. People are going to surprise you as they grow and change, and I want to encourage open mindedness and understanding, and living a life that exudes that. Who knows, maybe someone is hiding something from you for fear that you’ll judge them. To me it’s more important to allow people to be themselves. I never want to be the person whose convictions hold people away or cause them to hide who they really are. At the end of the day, our job is to encourage each other in our lives, and by exuding a presence of unconditional love, I think we will free each other to be the best versions of ourselves that we can be.

While I was in grad school, we covered many controversial topics very candidly. Racism, sexism, the politics of war. I once even used the word “cunt” in its truest form in class, that being an attempt to refer to my vagina in an innocent, that’s-just-part-of-my-body, way.

(My point was to prove we vilify the vagina by giving it the most negative and offensive swear words in the English language, so I said, “It’s ridiculous that can’t I just go to the doctor and say, ‘Hey yeah, so I’m here because my cunt is hurting.’”)

Cunts aside, one of the most heated topics I encountered was that of the tattoo. People with tattoos were less interested in the topic, but those without were very curious about the whole idea. As such, a pair of our youngest researchers decided to take on the task of studying the culture of tattoo parlors as an ethnographic study. To them, and from what I understood of the study, they seemingly concluded with disturbing results.

One of them was religious and forbade tattoos, very anti and kind of judgey. The other was a more gentle soul-ed open-minded person, with two tattoos of her own and a curiosity that was adorable. I’m not entirely certain of the former’s expectations, but the latter expected that when they immersed themselves into the community, she would be accepted. Much to her dismay, she was not.

Let me paint more of a picture. These women while in their early 20’s, look like they could easily be in their teens. It’s hard to paint a portrait of innocent, but innocent would be the best adjective that I could think of. These are completely terrible stereotypes and let me add a caveat that I care about these women and love them regardless. More adjectives upon first meeting are sheltered, middle-class, white, inexperienced, and young.

Now throw that in a tattoo parlor. What do you imagine when you think of this? Buzzing needles, somewhat masculine, the smell of sanitary alcohol in the air. When these two walked in – why weren’t they accepted? And why was it such a big fucking deal to those in the tattoo parlor that these women were in their space that, most of the time, they resorted to excluding them?

To me, I think that both the tattooed and the non-tattooed mutually exclude each other. However we are used to hearing about judgment of the tattooed. We are very used to people saying things like, “I would neeeever get a tattoo,” realizing or not realizing they are saying this to a tattooed person. That tattooed person has heard this 500 million times – perhaps the exclusion has worn on them.

Another colleague who was also very interested in the topic yet without tattoo, loved to get into debates with me about it. To this she would say, “Well if you didn’t want to be different, then why would you do that to yourself? You are marking yourself, and that makes others react.”

Ok you react…but why? Do earrings make you react? Are earrings offensive to you in any way?

Well looky here I have an example! Earrings offended a colleague of mine recently. I am a hiring manager at work, and I brought in a, who I thought was well qualified, candidate to give a presentation to a few of my colleagues to make a final decision. He spoke well, articulately, and absolutely nailed the presentation, and everyone agreed. We deliberated for a while after he left, seemingly unanimous in confirming that this was our guy.

However this one particular colleague said, after remaining silent for the praise-fest, “I don’t know. I mean, he wears those funny earrings,” while simultaneously flicking his earlobe.

So I guess wearing earrings can be bad too. Now these particular earrings were worn on a pair of gauged ears so maybe that was it. Perhaps a pair of pearls would have been more to my colleague’s fancy.

I brought this up because gauged ears and tattoos are arguably a part of the same culture. So my point is when hiring, some people like conformity, and it’s acceptable to bring up your judgment of a person based on how they mark themselves. We can apparently throw out all other qualifications because of gauged ears, and perhaps tattoos.

Back to the tattoo, it is an interesting separation. I will come out with having 2 tattoos. I made the choice to get my tattoos, and decided to for me. It’s nobody’s business why I have them, even though they are seemingly an invitation for others to ask why I got them and what they mean. I’m not afraid of how they look and proudly choose clothes that will show them off. I am aware that people judge me, but frankly, that’s sad for them because I’m awesome.

My point is that both sides should knock it off when excluding or judging the other. We are missing out on getting to know amazing people because of the artwork they choose or do not choose. When two young girls walk into a tattoo parlor, be fucking polite. They are people and you don’t need to become their best friends, but you don’t need to be an ass to them because you think they are different than you.

Likewise, when you see someone with a tattoo, knock it off with assuming they are dopers who still smoke cigarettes and are loose in bed (e.g. “tramp stamp”). They got their tattoos because they damn well wanted to and it’s really none of your business why. Appreciate it and move on.

What is your take? Do you have tattoos and feel judged? Or are you non-tattooed and feel judged? Let’s put down our gavels and have a conversation. How have tattoos affected you?

Around 3:00am each morning I wake up to finish the glass of water on my nightstand. It’s a phenomenon as predictable as a conservative watching Fox News. Then of course, I get up to refill it because let’s face it, I need to be prepared for the next time I wake up with insatiable thirst.

This obsession with water leaves me wholly convinced that in a past life I was a severely dehydrated desert animal. I simply can’t seem to quench my thirst, and never have been able to. Seriously just try getting in my car and viewing the back seat filled with water bottles and not think I make a living recycling.

So I’m up this morning and groped my way through the dark into the kitchen – and it smelled horrible. There was no visible smoke but it was definitely the smell of burning flesh.

Ok it wasn’t burning flesh but it smelled REALLY bad.

I checked the oven for the usual burned pizza I normally forget about, but no black frisbee was to be found. Then I remembered….I wanted fake chicken nuggets right before bed. (Yes I’m a vegetarian and no I don’t miss bacon. Those fake nuggets are crispy, they are juicy, and they are DELICIOUS.)

I carefully opened the toaster oven and there lay 4 pathetic black strips of protein. Sadly their dead carcasses looked up at me, never knowing the joys of being drenched in ketchup and low fat ranch dressing*.

*My roommate gives me shit about my low fat choices. “Why not buy the better tasting full fat and just eat less of it?” she frequently wonders out loud in my general direction. “Uh, because I slather burritos in sour cream, soak pizzas in ranch, and put mayonnaise on not one, but both, slices of sandwich bread?” Trust me I’m doing you all a favor, you don’t want to see full fat mayonnaise Joni running around the beach.

Why oh WHY can’t I cook anything ever? This particular circumstance can be explained by vodka – I may or may not have been out and about much earlier in the evening and perhaps there were people of the handsome male variety generously providing libations. I won’t confirm nor deny this possibility, but let’s just say I got home and wanted a snack, then determined that laying down would be better.

But even when I’m completely coherent. I can’t NOT burn the shit out of everything. My home is the place grilled cheese sandwiches come to die. All tofu scrambles are deep south cajon style, see image 1.

My point in all this is – I have finally realized that I am absolutely required to date and be friends with ONLY persons who can cook. I’ll die if I don’t. Die of eating only cereal and mac and cheese, or simply by burning the house down.

Bonus if you are a spider killer. My god I am the most PATHETIC person when it comes to spiders. I decided to wash my car yesterday and wouldn’t you know there was a giant spider just under the faucet. After my fit of screams died down, I ran to get the fly swatter and our all-natural (garbage) bug spray*.

*I mean really. Why would you buy “all-natural” bug spray? That shit is intended to MURDER, slay, annihilate bugs, their families and the ecosystem as we know it. A mafia in a bottle, dressed up in 40’s gangster attire with the kill success rate of Tony Montano. But no, we have the all-natural hippie Joan Baez of a spray, which is merely a gentle ass perfume that makes the house reek for 3 days. Her excuse is that we have a couple dogs…but they eat grass and cat shit, so I’m pretty sure they can handle a little bug spray in the air.

I stabbed the spider with the fly swatter sideways, shrieking all the way and blurting profanities about the spider’s family. I of course left the dismembered body coated in all-natural bug soap to warn the others that this, THIS, is the place where they would die should they trespass.

Unless it’s in a frying pan, in which case the spider would be burned like my poor sweet, now inedible, fake chicken nuggets.

Hitting the restart button is not an easy thing to do. Life just keeps on happening and before you know it, it’s summertime again, or your birthday again, or the oh-my-god-i’ve-been-at-the-same-job-i-hate-for-two-years realization sets in.

One of the easiest ways to hit restart is to just up and fucking move. Throw your shoes in a U-haul, flip off the neighbors who always complained about your music level, and out you go. (No but really, on my very last night at my condo the poop stank walked over and complained about my nominally volumed music. Good riddance, jackweed.) Obviously, I had the pleasure of moving for the 19,000th time this weekend, and I must say, I think I have this moving thing down. Of course it would not have been as easy without the fantastic band of friends I’ve somehow managed not to piss off over the years, and for them I’m ridiculously grateful. Youz kids are the best.

Now that I’m staring at a new ceiling, my dog is learning the smells of a new abode, and my internet connection is intact, I have some time to think about this whole process and why it is so wonderfully cleansing to move, hit restart, and evaluate the circumstances. Hell, I even have new bed sheets AND duvet cover. I’m really getting my shit together people.

The thing about us (by us I mean humans, which I’m assuming you are. Unless you are a parakeet who learned how to read, in which case HOLY SHIT can I meet you??) is we are creatures of habit. We love our routines, predictability and knowing how familiar things function. This can be a very good thing, as some life-isms need to happen over and over again, such as bathing. Please go ahead and continue to bathe routinely.

But I learned a new-to-me term the other day from our company’s marketing manager. You marketing nerds are going to laugh at me but HEY I wasn’t a marketing major, I found this enlightening. So whenever we are putting together email communications for our clients, he loves it when I write something weird that our customers wouldn’t be used to. Basically he thinks it’s great when I hit them in the face with a 2×4 (I had him read that, to which he said, “Joni, that is NOT true, delete that.” Notice how I haven’t deleted it and it’s now in your brain that I hit my clients with 2×4’s).

Whenever I 2×4 ‘em, he’ll look up from the paper I presented and say something along the lines of “Awesome, it’s a pattern interrupt. Run it.” A pattern interrupt is apparently a hell of a strategy for marketers, because people and parakeets of the world are so used to the same advertising messages that it just becomes a bunch of noise to try and avoid. The pattern interrupt gets their attention – they see, hear, look at something differently because it IS different from all the other messaging they are used to.

Think of companies like Geico. While we are all sick of it now, that camel running around the office asking everyone what day it is was pretty damn genius. When was the last time you saw a camel in your cubicle forest? Or a talking one ever? And was there any possible way you would have thought the first time you saw it that a camel was stoked about hump day? Doubtful.

Same goes with the new residence. Everything is different and my pattern has totally been interrupted. I had to figure out where the new onramp was to get to work today and sleepy Joni almost missed it. I didn’t know where I put my coffee in the mass of unpacking over the weekend, as the cupboard it used to live in no longer is accessible to me. So my dumb unplan-ful ass spent a good 10 minutes trying to hunt down my coffee, which of course my thoughtful roommate had placed next to my coffee maker because she clearly has more brains than I do.

My point is, this is a fantastic opportunity to develop new patterns. The position of this new house is different than my last place, and WOOHOO, the backyard faces west and we get the most ridiiiiculous sunsets overlooking the California coast. Ok there are some trees in the way, but if you stand on top of a table you can see the water so I’m just gonna go ahead and consider it beachfront property.

Just like the house, I have the opportunity for a new position and perspective. Personally, I have set some super high goals for this year. So far one of the big ones was already obliterated when my jerk of a car decided to nearly blow up and I needed to drop almost 2 G’s into it. However just because I won’t be backpacking in Europe at the end of the summer I still have plenty of other goals that need to get worked on. That book I keep talking about isn’t going to write itself, and while previous manuscripts were stolen or wiped out by a shitty hard drive last year, it’s time to get back to work. And while I have a new office, view, and have found my coffee, the opportunity to develop a new, more productive pattern is better than ever.

Plenty of people have already given up on their New Year’s resolutions. Or dreams for that matter. How can you interrupt your pattern to get a fresh start and get some real progress going? What can you shake up to help you reach some of the goals you always wanted to or just set on January 1st? I mean really, it’s not even March yet.

I realize sometimes when you see the same cars, houses, faces, and offices day in and day out, it’s hard to put on a fresh pair of glasses. You see this is why I lose my sunglasses all the time, it’s because I’m trying to consistently gain a fresh perspective, certainly not because I’m careless or irresponsible…

But when you interrupt your pattern, you don’t view your situation in the same way. You therefore won’t try and solve it the same way either, and can possibly start to get some real results.

I am totally that person. Overwhelmed with a feverish nervousness about halfway through my Sunday. Anxiety cues like playing with my hair or chewing extra sticks of gum are noticeable as I’m wondering how full my inbox will be when I finally arrive back in the office in just a few short hours.

Some Sunday nights are spent having nightmares of endless meetings. Others are sprinkled with blissful dreams of the most epic quitting stories imaginable. In one I, the heroine, am hoisted on the shoulders of my colleagues as we all march out into the streets. Applause at my bold renouncement of lacking vacation time and stern words at management ring out into the southern California suburb. Out of nowhere my co-workers will have made signs reading things like, “Joni for President!” or “In Joni we trust!”

The delusions of grandeur are endless. I definitely relate with JD from Scrubs in my daydream adventures for those times when I actually am in the office. In nearly all of the 9,000 meetings we have a day, I’m off in dreamland staring blankly at an upper corner of the ceiling. After a few minutes a quiet giggle will escape and my boss will stop everything to ask sternly, “What’s so funny??” I quickly have to stammer some intelligible response related to the TPS reports they were talking about because I was definitely not imagining Sam from accounting finally losing it, taking off his pants and streaking out of the room shouting obscenities about too many pricing plans.

Here’s the big annoying problem though. Every few hours or so, my stomach makes this funny sound. It’s not just every now and then, this happens every single day. The only way to shut it up is to place food in my mouth and swallow it. And the only way to get food? MONEY! That or farming, but if you’ve ever seen any houseplant given to me (I don’t buy the plants, I know better), you’ll understand that my house is pretty much a hospice where plants are sent to die.

Ah money and capitalism. This society wasn’t built in a way to support artists or dream having. Work is the American way, and the more you do it, the more freedom you’ll be able to buy. Kind of like an old German saying, “Arbeit Macht Frei.” That means “Work makes you free.” Oh and also, that lil idiom was adorned on many Nazi concentration camp gates. That was the first thing prisoners saw as they marched into camps, intended to teach them that if they just worked hard enough, they could be set free.

No I’m not suggesting the American working system is anything at all like the horrors that occurred in the late 30’s/early 40’s, but the slogan itself is something to think about. Do we, perhaps, in a teeny tiny way totally believe this? I think we do, as a quick google search of the saying brought me examples of people still trying to use it legitimately, such as a publication offering it as advice for unemployed graduates or this inspirational speaker bringing it home as a key to success.

I’m not contesting the value of work, it’s extremely important. No arguments there, get a job. I tell my dog that all the time but she just sleeps all day and expects me to do everything….damn gold digger.

But I think we’ve laid a simplistic model on the working world that doesn’t necessarily fit every person. I doubt I’m the only one who gets the Sunday sickness and Monday depression. There’s millions of other people like me who celebrate Thursday nights like a weekly Christmas Eve, enjoying wine in celebration of the Christmas-like Friday of freedom to come. Gone for two whole days are the to do lists, management woes, and crabby emails.

I completely accept that I’ve put myself in this particular situation of 9-5 employment. I spent my 20’s in college and shit for pay jobs, so I have some bills to take care of. Tuition is crazy expensive and I didn’t have any money, but I’m such a narcissistic asshole that I wanted to go to college and post-grad anyway. No my parents didn’t help me and no I’m not upset about it. Yes I’m pissed off at my government for making it so hard for young people who want to read books and understand more about the world, but that’s another topic.

At the end of the day, tuition bills and starting from essentially the bottom has me and millions of others working for the man. Which is totally fine for some people…but I’m here to suggest that the simple, tidy, Monday through Friday, 9-5 schedule isn’t going to glean as much productivity out of some of us. Creativity doesn’t always happen when you want it to. Sometimes it wakes you up in the middle of the night. Sometimes it occurs in the middle of the big game. The model of this-is-when-you-work-no-ifs-ands-or-buts might work just fine for some people. But for some of us it just doesn’t – and we are miserable because of it.

This is why school is so awesome for people like me. You have a deadline and then YOU figure out when you need to write that paper. YOU set up the study sessions in the middle of the night and it’s YOUR ass at the end of the day if the quality of work is a failure. It takes self-discipline, time management, responsibility and careful planning. Kind of like the owners of businesses – it’s their ass if the business fails.

Those of you having convulsions right now at the very thought of deadlines, papers and/or academia in general…then maybe the 9-5 is a good thing for you and that’s awesome. We need people like that, who enjoy the predicability of work, can be counted on to be there, answer phones and manage others. But for people like me, the convulsions on Sunday eve, Monday morning, are getting ridiculous.

Therefore, I’m doing something about it, and am excited for what’s coming up next. But how about you?

Are you in this position? Then what are you going to do? What is going to happen this week to change your life? Or have you found a model that works for you and you truly enjoy work? I want to hear about it and encourage you, for no one should have to face the first world problem that is Mondays alone.

“Which seat are you in?” Jeremy asked no one in particular. He seemed more interested in looking at the line in worry. The long snake of people we waited in for our flight was wrapped around seats, columns, babies, and old men, so long it seemed as though we may not make it onboard.

“I’m in 25D,” chimed Dan, whose usual excitement emanated from his answer. He loved going on trips no matter where we went. I swear I could send him to Siberia and he’d pack swim trunks happily just in case there was a hot tub. If there weren’t he’d make one.

I allowed a bit of a pause and then decided to answer as well, “I’m in 25E. Shocker.” My thick sarcasm was intended to communicate irritation that yet again, my ass was in the middle seat.

Picking up on my annoyance immediately, Dan turned to me with a huge smile, “Aw c’mon Joni! You’re the smallest, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable for you as it would be for us big guys.” He dropped his bag and lifted both arms to flex his biceps, apparently believing his somewhat swollen muscles would be both impressive as well as confirm his point.

He was right though. I am a good 100 pounds lighter than both of these guys, making my width considerably less. But dammit, it sucks! “For once, can I just get the damn window set?” I think to myself every time I hand the ticket person my boarding pass, a gesture of accepting my middle-seated fate.

I realize how trivial this problem is. How dumb it is to complain about sitting uncomfortably in the middle seat of an airplane. 40 years ago flying on an airplane was a luxury experienced by only the elite, a happenstance which merited wearing the finest suits and best behavior. However now the airplane ride is a cluster-fuck of nonsense, as the industry is scrapping to make ends meet, resulting in an experience more akin to an afternoon in a California DMV.

However the trivial annoyances add up after a while. We boarded the plane and I took my usual position in the middle seat. I didn’t complain and decided to make light conversation. We guesstimated how tall the suited man was who hit his head on the TV monitor above the aisle. We laughed at the flight attendant who made a joke about Dan’s tattoo. I was feeling better.

I posted my final Facebook check-in and turned off my phone. I don’t know why I always check-in at airports, maybe it makes me feel like my friends are coming with me…anyway, my phone was now off. I was officially disconnected from my world, and my only companions were Dan and Jeremy. Jeremy got the window seat and Dan, the aisle. Dan was arranging all his electronics, untangling wires and telling me about his new super battery pack that will charge his iPhone anywhere. He always has the latest in everything and is eager to share how cool the new whatever is. Jeremy on the other-hand was in his own world, being his usual socially awkward self and humming some tune uncomfortably. I feel bad for him, as he’s pretty new and Dan and I get along so well. I nodded in approval of Dan’s new gadget, feigning interest long enough until he could turn his music, Kindle, and neck massager on.

Once Dan was self-sufficiently amused, I turned my attention to Jeremy, who had a book on his lap. “Whatcha reading?” I asked cheerfully. There was not response, and I realized he had his eyes closed. No matter, I’ll look out the window. I love looking out the window for take off, it doesn’t matter where I am. So I placed my elbow on the armrest and cupped my head in my hand. Watching the palm trees whiz by I drifted into thoughts about how much I love where I live and frankly couldn’t wait to return.

FFWAP!

Jeremy decided to close the window. I watched in amazement as he settled his head on his seat and folded his hands together. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I yelled at him in my head. The annoyance I felt earlier returned with a much greater force.

What can I say, these are small tiny things, but again, they add up. I survived the windowless flight, connected in Atlanta, and finally arrived in Orlando. We made it to our hotel, to the conference where the real “fun” began. This conference was a success I suppose, as this was my account and over the past year I have been responsible for ensuring this franchise signed up for our product. I now have about 70% of them, and after the trip I’m pretty sure we will have the rest by the end of the month.

This seeming success doesn’t come without a price tag, and I have realized it’s a price I no longer want to pay. I am in an industrywhere sexual harassment is a norm, and my being a young woman I am the perfect bait for their pleasure. At one point there was a man growling audibly at me like a rabid dog, and I found out later from the men around him he was saying he wanted to take a bite out of my ass. Another man who had his arm around me and was staring at my chest announced multiple times I had “amazing tits.” Of course I was in a group of others who nodded and while trapped in this arm lock all I did was agree. The worst I’d say was when I was getting off an elevator, and another perv exclaimed how happy he was that my “hot ass” was on his floor. He went on about how he’d be dreaming of me later, and confirmed this claim with a firm slap on said ass.

After those experiences, the middle seat and the closed window were the least of my worries. At these conferences, I’ve realized that I have pigeonholed myself into awful situations, and it’s completely all my own doing. NO, it is not due to what I wore. If you must know the night of all of those examples I was wearing skinny jeans, a long sleeved black shirt with a cleavage-less collar, and a pair of high-heels. It doesn’t matter what I fucking wear, by being a young woman present in these situations, it’s going to happen.

However I will no longer accept this treatment, as I previously have. By being in these situations and not saying anything about it, I have tacitly agreed to harassment, which is not acceptable. For that, I am sorry. I know well that if I were to say what I really thought of those perverts, I’d move quickly from the hottest person in the room to the snobbiest bitch on the planet. That was something I was not willing to do. When I later told Dan about what happened, he was furious and told me to tell him when those things happen so he could do something about it.

“What do you want me to do? Frown approvingly, tell them they are inappropriate and to leave me alone? Do you think we’ll get the rest of the franchise that way?” I stirred my diet coke with a straw, and wished I’d put rum in it.

Dan looked down and understood. “I guess not,” he frowned, and moved his mouth to the side of his face sadly. The silence that filled that moment also filled a part of me that believed I could make a change in this industry. I am one woman in a sea of probably 500 perverted old men in a giant conference hall. My standing up for myself just ostracizes me from the group, the bitchy snob who thinks she’s all that.

I am not a bitch, a snob, nor the hottest thing on earth. I am a smart woman who knows what she’s worth…but haven’t been saying so in these situations. I know for damn sure I’m not a pair of tits and an ass. Most of these deals were closed over the phone, via webinar and email. They didn’t know what I looked like and my voice and brain were enough to convince them I’ve got a good product. The only “ass” in this situation is that I’m a badass salesperson.

I’m not suggesting women hide what we look like. Fuck no. I also am not saying that because there is an environment of extreme sexual harassment that we have to slink away as losers who won’t win the fight to equality. But I think there’s only so long that you can put up the fight before it drains everything out of you. At this conference, I realized there was no helping the old men who were growling, tit staring and ass slapping. But there were other men who I pointed these deplorable acts out to who actually listened, and some even agreed with me and gave my position a thought. That’s progress in my book, and that’s how I’ve survived these environments for this long.

However I am tired. I have fought this fight in this environment for almost 2 years and it’s taken the life out of me. I get cranky over middle seats on airplanes. That’s dumb. I have to make the big leap I am scared out of my mind to do – move on. The first step is to declare publicly, here, on the interweb, “ENOUGH!” I have had ENOUGH of this. After that first night of awful, I didn’t deal with it anymore – I frowned and said something about it. I am committed to not being a slap-ass darling at all anymore. If there is one more hand on my ass it is going to meet fire. Maybe I will get ostracized at the next conference. I don’t care anymore because if self-determinism and equality doesn’t sell, so be it. I can get fired and I don’t care. I am ashamed that I put up with it that long, and that is ENOUGH.

There is another way. I may have to sit in the middle seat on airplanes because I have a smaller body than my male companions. I can live with that. But I cannot live with knowing that I allow people to perpetuate a society where sexual harassment is a norm and a requirement to doing a job well. I have to lead by example and today – I am taking my stand.

I am excited, and ready to move forward. I hope you are too. The purpose of this blog is to encourage others to think differently and fight the ways that this world is currently functioning, and this matter is of utmost importance to me. I hope sincerely you agree and will join me in this very real fight – I need others to stand with me as I cannot change this world alone. Onwards.

Do you ever wake up before work and think, “God, the things that I could accomplish in this day if I didn’t have to go to work”? Lie in bed staring at the ceiling contemplating all the glorious activities you could do with yourself if you just called in “sick”? Sure, there’s a lot to be accomplished at the job, but what I mean are those things you just never seem to have time for.

– Hang by the pool and get a little bit of a tan.

– Could finally finish one of the 4 books you’re reading.

– Get the car washed.

– Go check out the new library.

– Walk two miles along the beach with no agenda whatsoever.

– Get more work done on that manuscript.

– Drive to LA, wear a fanny pack, and just be a damn tourist.

Sure, these things could be accomplished on the weekend. But weekends are always so fucking full already. Birthday party busses, planned hikes, obligatory brunches – football for God’s sake! Weekends are wonderful, but are well planned, go by quickly and don’t ever feel long enough.

There’s just something about days when technically you’re supposed to be doing something else, but you get to stay home. Like sick days. It is the worst thing ever staying in bed sick over the weekend, but if it’s on a normal work or school day, it’s not bad at all. You get a free day to heal yo self.

So I finally did it. I haven’t requested a day off just to have a day off since Christmas. I decided I was due…and today is that day!

I initially wanted to take today off because it’s the day after Halloween and I had planned on partying so much that this would be a day of hangover nursing. Wake up around 11:00, eat some food, go back to bed, get up again around 4:00, shower, then everyone is off of work and it’s time to destroy the liver again.

Then a couple of brain cells started yelling at me saying, “Excuuuuuse us! Here’s that opportunity! A free day to do whatever the fuck you want! You could go out there and BE somebody!” I was elated. So rather than approaching this Friday as a Saturday, and partying my ass off on Thursday like a Friday, I didn’t. I approached it as a normal work Friday and went to bed at a semi-reasonable hour (I mean it was Halloween, I had to go revel a little bit) trying to surprise myself that I have a day OFF. Like a snow day or something…which I totally miss by the way. Come on San Diego, can you snow just ONCE?

I mean yeah, I have a good job and I’m grateful for it. But I often make a joke that, “My job is getting in the way of my work.” You see, I’m still working for someone else and making their dream become a reality. I’m happy to do it because I’m paid to, but when asked the common career center question, “Would you do your job if you weren’t paid to do it?” I’d reply with a resounding “Hell no.” And that doesn’t sit right with me.

Call me crazy, but I have this ridiculous dream that I just can’t seem to let go of. That someday I’ll be working for myself. Won’t have to answer to anyone but my readers, publishers, whatever. Just me, my words, and the ability to pay my bills because of them.

So here I am, on my glorious, wonderful, DAY OFF. No obligatory plans, everyone is working, and here I sit at my dining room table doing exactly what I want to do with my life. It’s early, I have a cup of hot coffee, my 5 lb. pup sitting on my lap, and slippers on. The sun is shining and begging me to go play.

I got up early and began to write. I had Halloween candy for breakfast. I’ll go walk the dog in a little while when I need a break. Then I’ll shower, pack up my laptop, note pads and a couple of books, and head south to Ocean Beach. Once there I shall find and sit in a coffee shop and work some more. I’m determined to finish another chapter or so. Then I’ll take a walk along the beach, maybe the OB pier too. I can’t decide if I’ll have South Beach Bar and Grill fish tacos, or if I’ll go to OB Noodle House and have pho for a lunch.

Long story short, I’m my own boss for a day. It’s not a vacation, really, it’s living a day as if I work for me. So ok, if I can find a parade, I’ll get on a float and sing Twist and Shout – but if not I think Ferris Bueller would still be proud that I took the day off to do exactly what I want to.

And if you haven’t taken a day just for you in a while – as I hadn’t – then I encourage you to do the same. After all he did say, “Life moves pretty fast — if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it.”

Typing another email and bobbing my head to the Spotify station playing, I hear my office door open from behind me. “Good morning beautiful Joni!” a male voice said as I began to swivel my chair.

“Good morning beautiful Jerry!” I quipped as usual to this frequently offered greeting.

Throwing his torso back in laughter with his hands on his round stomach, Jerry stuttered between chuckles, “Oh Joni, you are just too much fun!”

It puzzles me why he says this. How is my exact returned greeting funny? He’s not the ugliest guy on earth?

Alright fine, I know exactly why it’s funny. It’s acceptable to tie the first words uttered to me to my appearance, but not to his. What a comedienne I am to suggest this. If only this principle could apply to everyone else in the office…”Hey spikey hair George!” or “Good afternoon handsome Sam!”

I realize this seems small or even trivial to some people, but words really do matter, as they reflect our beliefs and attitudes. In fact it’s an ongoing joke with our corporate partners that my motto is “Words Matter,” as one time we had a big discussion regarding the power of word choices. Joke all you want – it’s good being known as someone who cares about words and doesn’t settle for the bullshit everyone thinks they can call them.

Ah the funny world being the lady in a very male dominated industry. Me, for example, I work in Internet Marketing. My programmers are literally all men, and our main clientele are companies in the service industry…ergo 90% men. Trust me I love me my men, but I always have to make sure the “boys clubs” don’t form by forcing my presence in uninvited situations whenever I can. I’m not going to get cut out of a meeting or opportunity if I can help it just because I’m the chick. For example, I knew damn straight I didn’t go to Vegas with 4 of my male colleagues last week because I was the woman, and my suspicions were confirmed when 2 of them mentioned to me how fun it was to have a trip with “just the boys.” Thanks.

So what can I do? I fight back is what I do, an uphill battle that is seemingly getting worse, at least in my little office. We just hired a new sales manager and HOORAY, so far he is the worst of them all. For example, our offices share a wall that is a window. Yesterday morning the first thing he did was call my extension and ordered me to turn around so “our eyes can meet.” I hesitantly turned around accepting his creepy demand. I stared at him, both of us holding our phones to our ears. “Woah, you look like you could use some more sleep darling!”

It took everything I had not to simply say, “fuck off,” and instead found a way to end the conversation quickly.

Seriously, why does everything have to do with how I look? Yes, I’m tired some days, but I know for damn sure you aren’t telling our 45-year-old salesman that his eyes look slightly puffy…because no one cares how he looks.

I try to give people the benefit of the doubt and choose to believe they are being condescending because I’m younger. I don’t know, I’m almost 30 and have a ton of experience, so that card is getting a little worn. But I keep using it so I don’t get too bent out of shape realizing the horrific uphill battle I may have to fight for the rest of my life.

One of my favorite instances was when we were in Florida. The show had just wrapped up and we were in the giant resort hotel trying to figure out where to eat. We do our best to find the restaurant/bar where the greatest quantity of potential clients are. Walking by the Italian restaurant, we heard a short, sharp whistle.

“Hey! [My company name]! Over here!” The three of us, myself and my two 40-something male colleagues turned in unison to see who it was. Just the person I had been avoiding all day at the show…and of course we immediately made our way over.

Long, boring, sad, annoying story short, I was the center of attention throughout dinner, the only woman and a solid 15 years younger than the other diners. “Hey, there aren’t any more chairs, but you can sit on my lap!” was the first thing the man who called us over said to me. Later one of my colleagues was trying to invite himself to visit their office in another state when one guy said, “Well, I don’t know about you…but if you bring her,” nodding his head at me with a wink, “you can come anytime…and even stay at my place!” Jokes about the stripper pole in his friend’s living room followed.

Not all of the trips or conversations are that bad, but what’s a girl to do? I can allow the natural frustration to boil over, tell them what I really think and firmly kiss my career goodbye. Or I can smile, be a jackass right back and get a cheap laugh for somewhat playing along.

Every now and then I find a smarter guy in the mix and we’ll get into the pickle I have professionally. So far, every time these guys will tell me that I have an upper hand. That a woman’s looks are powerful and can help me professionally. “One of our best salespeople was a woman! She knew she was hot, would get a potential client interested in her and then, BAM! Close the sale and he didn’t even know what hit him!”

Am I the only one who sees how crazy that is? You do understand that the moment she gets her first wrinkle or a wedding band on her finger that her tactic is all over, right? And she will be washed up with all the other 40-year-old women, and the new 20-year-old “great saleswomen” will be up to bat among the other, still successful, 40-year-old men.

What is worse to me is that I have very few women to talk to about this issue with. Many women I know abuse the shit out of how they look, and tell me I need to lighten up. “You’re hot, enjoy the advantage!” OK, well what if I wasn’t? Don’t you dare tell me that I am where I am because of how I look. I studied very hard in school, busted my ass through a grueling interview process, and made it here climbing with everything I have to improve further. Only to be told that I’m here based on how I look? Please.

Yes I would probably get pushed around as the young 29-year-old guy among a leadership team of 40-50 year old men. I get that – but it’s an extra wrench having a pair of boobs and long hair I like to wear down. I would like to say I have all the energy in the world to always fight the good fight of equality. But I’m so tired of fighting today. Feeling depleted, discouraged, and a bit listless, frankly. I am literally the only woman in my office besides the data entry girl and a couple consultants that are there a few hours a week – and most of the time it is a lonely place.

But, fuck it. What can I do? Give up? That is never an option, so I am going to fight again today anyway. And if that punk-ass in the office next to me wants to make another stupid comment about how I look, let him. At the end of the day, I know that I’m smarter than he is, and a better person for not reducing others to how they look as their professional merit.

It’s important to see through the bullshit, and that alone is a leg up on the other morons in the professional world. Women who think they can abuse their looks to get ahead are only kidding themselves. Men who think they can reduce me to my looks are sorely mistaken, and I won’t forget the animals who treat me badly.

Because boys and girls, our daughters need us to fight back – and so do our sons. I say I’m tired because I wish for one day I could rest enjoying things as an equal, considered first for my thoughts and not my looks or breasts. But that day will never come unless I fight with everything I have, every day. Therefore I cannot become tired, and cannot give up.

Women are powerful and successful because we have brains and ambition, not because of smooth skin or beauty. We need to believe that, and start acting like it. I’m begging you to help me, as I can’t win this fight alone. We need others, men and women, to fight too in order for there to be a more level professional playing field.

I don’t know about you, but I deeply believe that everything I do affects the next generation directly. So onwards, I fight. Here’s to another day in the pursuit of equality, for my children, and yours.